


Not That Kind of Bar

by eticatka



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Ballet, Case Fic, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Office, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, References to Depression, Resolved Sexual Tension, Robin's up for a challenge, Shopping, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:15:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28676538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eticatka/pseuds/eticatka
Summary: Robin joins a ballet studio for a case. It turns up to be more challenging than she expected.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott & Cormoran Strike, Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 98
Kudos: 65





	1. A Brilliant Idea

“Can ye hear it?” Barclay pointed at the door. Outside the office, heavy footsteps were heard, getting closer with every thump. “Are waitin’ for someone?”

“Yes, for Robin,” Pat answered, not looking up from her computer.

“Doesnae sound like her.”

The door opened ajar, and Robin appeared on the threshold, breathing heavily. She nodded to Pat and Barclay and crashed on the old sofa, which gave out its usual farting noise.

“Are ye hurt, Boss?” Barclay asked, genuine worry in his voice. Robin took a few deep breaths and winced.

“Well, nobody hurt me, but I feel like every muscle in my body is on fire. I wasn’t prepared for this.”

“Prepared for what?” Pat and Barclay asked in unison.

“Bloody ballet!” Robin attempted to get up but lost her balance and sat back down with a groan.

*

It was her own idea.

Robin repeated it in her mind, as she lowered herself into a steaming bath, every single muscle in her body aching.

It was her _fucking brilliant_ idea. She can’t back down now, can’t admit she’s incapable, not when Strike and their new client put so much trust in her.

The client, a balding man in his early fifties, asked them to tail his 17-year-old son, who had recently announced he was going to take up ballet. The father couldn’t grasp why his son, who had always been into boxing, wrestling, and ice hockey, would get involved in something as “unmanly” and “useless”, and assumed that this way he concealed some dodgy activity. When it became obvious that the investigation would include following the client’s son to the ballet studio and watching him there, Robin suggested that she pretend to be a new student and get even closer to the young man. Strike approved her idea enthusiastically, and the client joined in.

At first, everything went as smoothly as it could. The beginners’ class didn’t demand any previous experience from the newcomers, which was lucky for Robin, who had none. She was also relieved to find out no special attire was needed for the classes: even ballet shoes could be substituted for socks. She googled some basic information on the classical ballet, watched several YouTube videos and even tried to repeat a few simple exercises. Her head was now full with all kinds of French terms she could hardly understand, but hoped to recognise in class.

On Wednesday, she arrived at the studio 15 minutes prior to the class, got changed into a loose white T-shirt, black leggings and thick socks, and went into the room which most resembled a gym: there were enormous mirror panels on every wall, and a few metal bars were standing at even distance from each other. Six women of different age, all dressed in bodysuits and white tights, with real ballet shoes on their feet, were warming up: stretching, hoisting their long legs up the bars and touching their toes, or just sitting on the floor with their legs bent and feet pressed together. Suddenly Robin felt a little awkward and out of place in her leggings and socks. She muttered a greeting (one of the women nodded to her, others didn’t even look up), went to the corner and tried to copy the other women. However, she could barely reach the floor with her fingertips when she bent forward. Cursing her sedentary lifestyle, she switched to rotating her joints, which gave out unpleasant cracking sounds.

Just before 6 p.m. a young man entered the room, and Robin recognised her mark (whose name, quite conveniently, was Mark). The women greeted him warmly, and one of them even gave him a hug. While Robin contemplated if she had enough time to introduce herself to him, the coach – a plump Asian woman of about 40 – finally appeared, and everybody took their places at the bars, feet in the position Robin knew was called the first: heels together, toes apart. Although Robin chose to stay in the back row, the coach noticed her and addressed her with a smile.

“You must be the new student. What’s your name?”

“Er, Linda,” said Robin, remembering she had signed up as Linda Lawrence.

“Welcome to the team, Linda! I’m Satoko. Have you done ballet before?”

“No, not really.”

“Okay, we’ve started a few weeks ago, so you’ll have to watch what the others are doing and try to do the same. I’m here for all your questions. Okay?” Robin nodded sheepishly. “Good. So we start, as usual, with _plié_ …”

*

During the hour-and-a-half class, Robin learned a few things. First, she discovered she had zero flexibility, and her back protested every time she bent in any direction. Second, she had very poor coordination between her arms and legs, and a mediocre sense of rhythm, so she stumbled and messed up trying to copy the movements. Finally, she slouched, and Satoko even had to walk up to her a few times to push her shoulders down or to make her straighten her back.

The worst of all, however, was the humiliating feeling that everyone around was doing better that her. The girls and Mark reached their toes easily, whether standing, sitting, or lying on the floor. During the break, one of them even sat in a full split and remained in that position for a minute, as if it was the easiest thing in the world. Robin could hardly open her legs to 90°.

 _It’s for the case_ , she kept reminding herself. _You’re doing this so you can watch Mark, who is, by the way, clearly enjoying himself. Nobody’s expecting you to dance at Bolshoi. No-one will ever reveal you’re a detective just because you’re a poor dancer. Relax._

As the hot water soothed her aching muscles, Robin remembered how easily one of the girls performed a pirouette or how graciously the other did the step sequence. She wished she was able to do the same.


	2. It's about Your Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin is still upset, but her co-workers know how to cheer her up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too much dialogue, too little action!

“Oh, did you take up ballet?” Pat asked with a smirk. “How lovely. It’s magic for your back!”

“Oh, is it?” Robin didn’t even try to conceal her sarcasm. “Right now, it’s hell for my back. If it weren’t for the case, I’d never set my foot in it.”

“That’s because you lack training,” the office manager said. “Give it a few more weeks, and you’ll start enjoying this pain. And then it’ll just go away. Believe me, I did ballet when I was a bit younger than you. What?” The question was addressed to Barclay, who looked as if she said she flew to Mars and back when she was young. “I was much thinner then, in case you have troubles imagining me doing the grand-battement.”

“Shame The Slipper doesnae dance Scottish country dances,” Barclay mused. The nickname for their mark was, as usual, derived from his pun. “Ye’d love them, Boss. They’re easier an’ more fun. Used to dance ‘em when I was younger than Pat.”

Ignoring the irritated look on Pat’s face, he raised his arms up and did a few jumping steps across the office.

“Am I the only one who didn’t dance anything in their youth?” Robin inquired. “If I knew that, I would have offered anyone of you to follow The Slipper. Would save me the pain in the ass – in every sense.”

The door to the inner office opened, and Strike appeared, an empty mug in his hand.

“I didn’t dance in my youth,” he said. “And I still don’t.”

*

“So, what are you doing there?” Strike asked when the two of them sat down at their usual table at the Tottenham. Robin still winced at every movement, despite the class being two days ago.

“The first half is entirely at the bar. Not _that_ kind of bar!” she added, noticing Strike’s eyebrows go up. “Just a metal bar you’re holding on to with one hand while doing all kinds of exercises with your legs. _Plié_ , _battement tendu_ , _battement jeté_ –”

“I see you’ve done your French homework!” Strike saluted her with his pint. “Not sure I’ll memorise it all right now, but I might use some of them later. On my right leg.”

Robin snorted a laugh.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to –”

“I did. Go on.”

“Then we sit down on the floor and do all kinds of stretching. And then we learn some step sequences and–” she sighed. “And jumps.”

Trying not to imagine how Robin’s breasts would behave when she jumped, Strike hurried to ask the next question.

“Are you happy with it?”

“It’s not about my happiness, it about watching the Slipper. By the way, he _is_ very happy with it. I can’t see anything dodgy about him, but maybe I haven’t watched him for long enough.”

“For me, everything is about your happiness.”

Before Strike realised what had just slipped his tongue, it was too late to take it back. He hoped Robin’s cheeks were red thanks to her wine and not because he embarrassed her, but, if he was honest with himself, chances were low.

Robin sighed once again and circled the rim of her glass with her finger.

“Honestly? I’m shit. No, don’t tell me not to say such things about myself, I know I’m shit, because I have zero training, no flexibility, and even no fucking ballet shoes.”

Strike was about to laugh, but refrained from it, seeing that Robin was on the verge of tears. He put down his beer and took her hand in both his.

“Robin, I know you’re wonderful. You’re doing just enough to look credible in that studio, and this is just enough to solve the case. Bonus points if you have fun, and I’m sure you have a sufficient number of legs to enjoy yourself.” She vaguely smiled, and he took it as an encouragement. “As for fucking ballet shoes, I think the agency can afford it. We can include it in the final bill. The necessary props or something like that.”

Robin was now grinning wide, and, best of all, she didn’t remove her hand from his grasp.

“Can I also have a bodysuit?” she asked shyly and then laughed. “Shit, I’m sounding like a small girl in a toy shop.”

Strike’s mind attempted to wander to the image of Robin in a bodysuit, but he, again, chased it away.


	3. A Treasure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team delve into the investigation; Robin goes shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for all the typos and mistakes - I'm just too sleepy now but I couldn't wait to share this chapter!

“So I suspec’ the Racoon isn’ cheatin’ bu’ he’s definitely in some creepy business,” Barclay finished his report. The staff meeting progressed quite smoothly. Andy and Michelle, who worked together on a difficult case, had finally seen a possible clue, and in Barclay’s case, no news was also good news. It was now Robin’s turn to summarise her week. She quickly recounted the results of all her surveillances, and finally got to her major case.

“The Slipper seems to enjoy the ballet classes very much, and he does really well. I’d say, for someone who has never done any ballet before, he’s really good, so I’m sure he attended every class since he signed up. He doesn’t look like somebody who skips the lessons to take part in something suspicious, like his father thinks.”

“Have you managed to talk to him?” Strike asked, writing something down into his notepad.

“No, I didn’t have the chance. I hoped we’d walk together to the Tube, or that at least I’d be able to follow him, but someone picked him up in a bright blue VW. Could it be his father’s driver?”

“Definitely,” Strike replied. “I’m sure this family can afford it, and perhaps even more.”

“Anyway, since I arrived by foot, I couldn’t follow him that night. In the end, it wouldn’t be easy for me to drive after them in such a state.” She winced. “I took a picture of a car, though.”

She held up her phone so that everybody could take a look. Strike wrote down the car’s number and zoomed in the picture as much as he could.

“Have you seen the driver?”

“Blond, short hair, large sunglasses, black leather jacket. Three golden rings on the left hand.”

“Yer a treasure, Boss, how did ye manage tae see so much?” Barclay sounded amazed. “Bet he opened the door for a second, the lad climbed inside an’ – whoosh!”

Robin swiped the picture to the right. A photo of a man appeared on the screen, totally matching Robin’s description.

“That second was enough.”

“Sam’s right. You’re a treasure.” Strike looked at her with unconcealed pride. “Let’s do this: I’ll pick you up next time, and we’ll follow them together.”

*

Hoping it was an absolutely best-mates-thing to do, Robin asked Strike to go ballet-shopping with her. She convinced herself it wasn’t any different from impersonating rich siblings at Vashti or buying a perfume on her birthday. In a way, it was even more modest and thoroughly pragmatical. Of course, she could’ve invited Vanessa or Ilsa instead, but it would inevitably demand unnecessary explanations. Strike, on the contrary, knew the pre-history, was aware of their budget, and, most importantly, knew Robin better than anybody else. _A perfect shopping-buddy_ , Robin kept telling herself. _Purely platonic._

It remained quite platonic while she was choosing her ballet shoes. Upon learning that Robin was a new ballet student, the over-enthusiastic shop assistant gave a full lecture on the advantages and disadvantages of different kinds of shoes. Robin ended up choosing nice black fabric ones with leather toes. The assistant promised this feature would support her foot and help her perform a flawless _point_.

It was also platonic enough when Robin bought three pairs of non-transparent white tights: she just chose them at the counter. However, when she got to trying on various bodysuits, it finally occurred to her that Strike wasn’t probably the best option for shopping together. Even though the most delicate parts of her body were covered, she felt as if she was in her underwear. She hoped Strike would get embarrassed, too, and avert his eyes. Yet when she lifted the edge of the cubicle curtain and appeared in front of him in a burgundy bodysuit which hugged her every curve as if it was liquid, he seemed frozen. He observed her from head to toe for a long moment without a word, then blinked a few times and said quickly:

“That’s the one. It’s perfect. We’re taking it.”

As she was changing back into her jeans and T-shirt, Robin couldn’t help wondering if Strike’s hasty reaction meant that the bodysuit was indeed perfect, or that he didn’t like seeing her in such a state.


	4. Talkative

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike interviews an unexpected witness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...in which @pools_of_venetianblue and @meansovermotive (and everyone else) receive their share of Strike's perspective on shopping with Robin!

Strike parked his BMW just opposite the entrance to the “Pas de Cheval Ballet Studio” about half an hour before the lesson was due to end. He arrived early on purpose: he was going to use the time to explore his surroundings on the pretext of smoking.

It turned out to be smoking on the pretext of exploring: the small street was empty and quiet, and a bright-blue VW wasn’t among the parked cars. Strike leaned on the boot of his car and dragged on his cigarette. The day was warm, and the studio windows were open wide. Strike could hear a piano cover of some pop song and a female voice, lively and cheerful, floating over the music.

“And arms up!... The arms a beautiful, round, like you’re holding a large pizza above your head. Open your arms slowly – two – three – four – and back up – two – three – four. Now stretch your legs forward… flex your feet – and point – and flex – and point – and flex – and catch your toes!”

Strike finally realised they had to be sitting on the floor, otherwise these strange words would make even less sense.

“Now take a deep breath – going to the right, stretching your right side. Keep the balance. Make sure both your buttocks are on the floor, if you _do_ have two, of course. Those who don’t have another problem, I’m afraid.”

Strike nearly laughed. Robin _did_ have two buttocks, he could testify to this. His mind drifted to their shopping day, reminding him of those buttocks – and those _perfect_ breasts – tightly wrapped in burgundy cotton, flattering Robin’s figure and making her even more irresistible. In the front, the bodysuit was rather modest, with its rather high neckline and even small sleeves that hid Robin’s freckled shoulders from his sight. However, when Robin turned her back to him, and he saw that impossibly low cut which reached down almost to those very buttocks and demonstrating her back in all its flawlessness – His mouth watered even at the memory of it. He couldn’t see Robin right now, but his imagination did it all for him. The tension he started to feel below his waist wasn’t doing any good to the surroundings exploration.

“ _Plié_ – _passé –_ _pirouette_! Oh thank god we have only two legs, otherwise you would get lost!”

 _That’s ableist_ , Strike chuckled internally.

“… and _pirouette_! Well done, Linda, almost there!”

“Linda”, as Strike instantly remembered, was Robin’s alter-ego. (He was supposed to play her husband called, unsurprisingly, Michael). He felt a wave of pride for her rising in his chest: she was making progress, she wouldn’t be so distressed anymore, even if the only progress that mattered was the one she made in figuring out whether Mark (or the Slipper) was engaged in any suspicious activity whatsoever.

“Got a light?” he heard suddenly. The hoarse voice brought him down to earth. Turning around, he saw the man from Robin’s pictures: short blond hair, a leather jacket, three golden rings.

“Sure.” Strike clicked his lighter. The other man dragged on his cigarette blissfully.

“Cheers, mate. The boss doesn’t approve me smoking in his fucking cabriolet.” He nodded to the bright-blue VW Strike didn’t hear arriving. “He prefers to ride a Bentley himself but it has to be lower class when it comes to his kid. I say, let the boy use the Tube, and everybody wins: less petrol wasted, less air polluted, and the kid gets to see real life!”

Strike, who switched to his favourite mode of an attentive listener, merely nodded. He barely believed his luck.

“Nah, he says, I need you to keep an eye on him in case he’s in a bad company. What am I, a fucking nanny for an almost grown-up man?” He exhaled. “Sorry. It’s the smoke. Makes me talkative.”

“No problem,” said Strike, who didn’t mind him being talkative at all. “So, is it the kid that you’re waiting for?”

“’Course! Fucking ballet! Who could’ve thought, the father put so much money into boxing, wrestling, you name it, and here we go! I bet he’s the only bloke there.”

“My wife says he is,” Strike replied, feeling sudden pleasure in referring to Robin as his wife.

“Come on, you’re waiting for your wife? Good for her, a whole husband picking her up!”

“Not too whole. I’m one-legged.”

The driver sighed.

“Mate, that’s sad. But at least you can’t dance ballet!”

They laughed, the driver whole-heartedly, Strike politely. The man reminded him strongly of his childhood friend Dave Polworth. The only thing missing was Cornish nationalism.

“This kid, I tell you, had gone nuts,” the driver went on, having forgotten, evidently, that he was talking about an “almost grown-up man”. “Out of the blue he comes and says, dad, I wanna do ballet, I signed up, thank you, bye. And he fucking loves it! For five weeks I’ve been driving him here and back, and every fucking time he jumps into the car, eyes burning, all excited, shouting “Oh Stuart, I’m so happy!”. It’s my name, Stuart.”

“Michael.”

“Nice to meet you, mate. Stuart, he says, it feels so good! I say, go and find yourself a good shag, laddie, instead of sub – sublimating it! Hey, here he goes. Gotta get back in, cheers, Michael!”

“Cheers.” Strike said to his back and returned to his driver’s seat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Buttocks' and 'legs' jokes belong to my wonderful ballet teacher :D  
> Please tell me if you'd like me to explain the ballet terms or if you're OK like that!


	5. Lending a Helping Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A clue is missed, another clue is found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Flanks and everybody who helped me with the Real British GPS Navigator!

Robin was the last to exit the building. A red-haired woman of about the same age clung to her arm; she alternated between limping heavily and hopping. Strike lowered the side window.

“Lindsey? Do you need help?”

He hoped the nickname he thought up for his pretend wife sounded natural enough.

“Yes, please. We’re giving Nina a lift.”

It was an affirmation, not a question. Marveling at Robin’s acting skills, Strike exited the car and helped Robin escort the woman to the backseat.

“Nina, this is my husband Michael. Nina fell badly from a jump, it could be a sprain or even a twist, so I offered to take her to A&E.”

Half-listening to Nina’s gratitude and explanations (they wouldn’t have to wait for her at A&E, they could just drop her off and go home, and her husband was going to pick her up from there), Strike wondered if it was just an extreme expression of Robin’s ultimate kindness, or if she had a plan. He searched for the closest A&E on Google Maps: according to the navigator’s estimation, it was a 12-minute ride.

Meanwhile, Stuart’s bright-blue VW went past Strike’s still parked car, and the driver honked three times, making a momentary eye contact with Strike. Strike waved and started the engine.

“Who was it, love?” Robin asked. 

_S_ _he knows who it is, she knows we have to follow them, she’s just bloody good at playing her part_.

“Just some random bloke who asked me for a light.” Strike kept his eyes on the VW. Chances were high that they wouldn’t be able to follow it with an injured lady in tow, but Strike kept hoping for the best. Besides, being called “love” by Robin felt like something he could get used to. “Exchanged a couple of words, that’s it.”

“ _In one hundred yards, turn right,_ ” the navigator instructed. Strike saw with relief that Stuart turned right as well, and followed him.

“Are you comfortable, Nina?” Robin called. “I’ve got ibuprofen if you’re too much in pain.”

“No, thank you,” Nina smiled weakly. “I can cope right now, and I’m sure they’ll give me something there. That’s the price I’m paying for being so clumsy!”

“You’re not clumsy!” Robin protested vigorously. “I wish I was that gracious and well-balanced!”

“You’re doing really well for someone who has just started. The rest of us have at least some background or experience. Except for Mark, probably, but that’s another story.”

“ _In two hundred yards, at the roundabout, take the first exit._ ”

“Why?” Robin asked. “I thought he was also a newbie, just like me.”

“Well, he is, but not just like you.” Nina chuckled.

“ _In one hundred yards, at the roundabout, take the first exit. At the roundabout, take the first exit._ ”

Strike cursed under his breath: while he followed the instructions, Stuart’s VW continued to the second exit. _Fuck._ He wasn’t particularly angry at Robin, but still made a mental note that they had just missed their mark because of her excessive generosity. And they couldn’t even discuss the case with a stranger in their car and had to pretend they were married. _Fucking shit._

“D’you mean he’s younger?” Robin seemed not to notice his dissatisfaction. Could it be that she _did_ have a plan?

“I mean it’s in his genes.” Nina said with authority. “Well, I don’t know the _exact_ story, but the girls gossiped that he comes from a theatrical family, and that there’s some dramatic background. We don’t ask _him_ about it, of course, in case it’s too traumatic for him.”

*

“Robin, that was spectacular,” Strike announced after they had dropped Nina off.

“I had to make up for fucking up the pursuit,” she smiled. “I really couldn’t leave her behind, it was an awful fall. And it turned out she could give us the clues we could’ve never found otherwise. It was a pure coincidence.”

“Fancy a dinner? We have too much to discuss, and it’s getting late.”

“I’m dying for a shower, though a dinner would also be nice.”

Strike took a deep breath, concentrating on the road in front of him, though his heartbeat accelerated anyway.

“Listen, would it be too rude of me to crash at your place and to order us a takeaway while you’re taking a shower?”

_We’re best mates, aren’t we?_

Her answer seemed to take an eternity.

“That would be great, Strike.”


	6. The Best Detectives in the Country

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin and Strike are closer than ever to the solution (and, probably, to each other).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: referenced suicide

For a few minutes, they drove in silence. Robin felt slightly awkward, even though she knew there was nothing to feel awkward about. They were just going to brainstorm the new information and to have a totally friendly dinner. She also felt the adrenaline that fueled her active conversation with Nina slowly wane, giving way to the dull pain in her legs, shoulders and back.

“Can you dial SOM, please?” Strike broke the silence. SOM stood for “Slipper’s Old Man”, a nickname Barclay forged for their client. “Have a few questions for him.”

Robin took out her phone, called their client’s number and turned on the speaker. After a few rings, he picked up.

“Mr. Tarnow? Cormoran Strike and Robin Elacott here.”

It was strangely satisfying to hear him say her name in this particular way. Not “and my assistant-turned-junior partner Robin Elacott”, not “my partner Robin Elacott is also here and can hear our conversation and probably ask some questions if she’s smart enough”. No, they were equals, and he didn’t just treat her as such, he acknowledged it on every occasion. _Carl Oakden can go and fuck himself_.

“Mr. Tarnow, does someone called Stuart work for you?”

“Yes, my driver’s name is Stuart. Stuart Blake. Why?”

“How long has he been your driver?”

“Well, er, I guess… About six years, probably seven.”

“And is he reliable? Have you, perhaps, noticed anything strange about him lately?”

“No, he’s a good chap. Would’ve trusted him with my life.”

After Strike bid goodbye to their client, he gave out a small grunt which Robin interpreted as that of disappointment.

“Your theory didn’t work, did it?” she asked cautiously, though she wasn’t sure he did have a theory, in the first place

“Not yet, but this conversation wasn’t entirely useless. I just need to check something.”

“Check what?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re all nice and clean and not as hungry as you are.”

“I’m not h–” Robin felt the blood rush to her cheeks.

“Okay, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that thunder from your stomach.”

_Shit._

“Besides, I’m too hungry myself to talk business, and this car won’t drive itself.”

*

Robin allowed herself to spend full twenty minutes in a blissful hot shower, relishing the memories of everything she got right during the ballet class. She wasn’t sure if it was her new outfit, the whole week of everyday training and stretching (she even used her new stretchable rubber band she got as a present in the ballet shop), her overall enthusiasm or everything combined, but she started to thoroughly enjoy the classes and make reasonable progress. She wasn’t sure what came first, the enjoyment or the progress, but she started to think that even if they didn’t solve the case, this would be a win-win situation for her. She even had to admit that Pat was right: she started to enjoy the pain she felt after the class.

It felt oddly calming and _domestic_ to know that Strike was waiting for her in the kitchen, that he had probably already ordered their dinner and it would arrive any minute, and they had a lovely evening ahead. She got used to being alone in the flat (Max spent most days at his boyfriend’s now, and Wolfgang was there with him), but sometimes it felt just a little too lonely. What would it feel like, she thought, to come home with him every day? Cook dinners together? _Take those showers together?..._

Realising that her thoughts arrived at the territory she wouldn’t dare to step in even if she was alone, Robin quickly turned off the water, got out of the shower, toweled herself and got dressed. It wasn’t that she had forbidden herself completely to think of her partner and best friend in a way that included _feelings_. In fact, building the barbed-wire fence around this particular part of her mind cost her no less effort than taking up ballet, and was quite not as pleasant as ballet. But days and months went by, her 30th and his 40th left their mark as the best days of her life spent with her best mate, and nothing changed between them. Even if sometimes he looked at her as if she was the only source of light in a pitch-black night (like he did in a ballet shop), she found ways to convince herself she had just imagined it.

When she entered the kitchen, expecting to find there trays with steaming curry, Strike stood at the stove, stirring something with a wooden spoon.

“Strike, are you _cooking_?” Robin froze where she stood. She could see two pans and a pot on top of the stove, partially obscured by Strike’s large frame.

“Shit, I forgot you’re the best detective in the country,” Strike answered without looking at her. “Hoped to fool you.”

“But – you didn’t have to –”

“Is it too much intrusion from my side?” He cast her a quick look, slightly grinning. “I just thought you deserved a home-made meal, so I looked what’s in the fridge. ‘s that okay?”

For a moment, she felt an odd impulse to run to him, hug him from behind, kiss him on the cheek. It felt purely logical in this domestic setting. Instead, she merely nodded and went to fetch plates and glasses from the cupboard.

“Nah, put that down!” Strike ordered. “When I’m finished, you’ll tell me where everything is, and I’ll take it out. You’d better sit down and put your feet up.”

“Yes, sir,” Robin giggled. She went to get her laptop and sat at the breakfast bar, putting her aching legs on a spare stool. “Is it okay if I google something while you’re doing your magic?”

“Fire away. By the way, SOM’s Christian name is Richard Samuel.” Hearing her gasp, he looked at her over his shoulder with a smirk. “You’re the best detective in the country, but I’m not a completely lost case myself.”

Robin erased the words “Rick Tarnow” she had already typed in the search bar (this was the name their client introduced himself by) and replaced it with “Richard Samuel Tarnow”. In a second, a long list of results appeared, topped by a Wikipedia link.

“Woah, he really is famous,” she muttered. “I thought he was just a businessman.”

**Richard Samuel “Rick” Tarnow (born March 12, 1962) is a British theatre producer and director.**

“Should’ve started with that, eh?” Strike commented. “I just haven’t thought we’d need to dig this deep. Now skip to the ‘Personal life’ section.”

**Tarnow has been married twice. His first wife was Christina Dean (d. 2000). **

**He lives in London with his second wife and son.**

“Is that all?” Strike sounded rather disappointed than surprised. “Okay, let’s do some simple math then. How old is the Slipper?”

“Seventeen. Which means he was born in ’98 or even ’97.” Robin felt a rush of adrenaline rise inside, as usual when they got closer to the ultimate clue. “That means Christina Dean is – _was_ his mother.”

“Obviously.”

“Strike, there’s an article about her, too.”

**Christina Emily Dean (Tarnow) (October 3, 1969 – October 4, 2000) was a British ballet dancer best known for her performances in _The Sleeping Beauty_ and _The Nutcracker_. From 1997 to 2000, she was married to the producer Rick Tarnow. On October 4, 2000, the day after her 31st birthday…**

“Oh my God,” Robin whispered in the middle of the sentence. Strike turned off the stove and moved to stand behind her, looking over her shoulder.

“…Dean committed suicide,” he finished reading. “Here’s our answer, Ellacott.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I haven't messed up with these fake Wikipedia pages. And I promise it won't get any darker!


	7. At Bloody Last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if what follows is still in the confines of G rating. Please tell me what you think :)  
> In any case, this chapter looks more like T.

Robin’s shoulders trembled, and Strike was suddenly aware she wasn’t as used to this as he was. He swiftly took the laptop from her lap, closed it and took it away to the living room. When he returned, she sat still, looking in front of her.

“Shit, I’m sorry.” He pulled her in a careful hug. “We didn’t have to do that now.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Robin sniffed. “I wanted to do it. I just didn’t know – poor Mark – Christ, what’s wrong with me? I’m a detective, I should’ve got used to it.”

“It comes with practice. Some things are just too sensitive,” Strike said softly into her hair, still a bit damp from shower. “Wanna drink something?” He knew Max would have some strong alcohol in one of the cupboards.

“No, thanks. I don’t want to drink alone, and you’re driving.”

Strike inhaled deeply. He wasn’t going to fool himself: he’d almost forgotten he still had to get back home after dinner. This was one of those many moments when they stood right next to the line they drew between them. Whatever he said next would either erase that line or thicken it.

“Robin, I…” _Fuck it._ “I could stay, if you want.”

She turned her head sharply, almost hitting his chin with her forehead.

“Shit, I’m fucking this up.” Strike winced. “I mean, stay as in ‘stay in the flat to keep you company as long as you need it’. Not in any way you wouldn’t like me to.”

There were still tears in her eyes, but she suddenly laughed one of those laughs he loved in her the most. And he felt the line between them becoming more and more blurred.

“Actually, Strike, I’d love you to stay in every way possible.”

She looked at him for a second or two more, leaving no choice for him but to bend down and press his lips to hers. He heard her laugh into the kiss, felt her arms locking behind his neck. He broke away from her to look in her eyes again and kissed each of those large eyes, still salty and wet from tears.

“A drink it is, then,” he said, feeling a wave of tenderness rising in his chest. “And the dinner is getting cold. I’m no Gordon Ramsay, of course, but it’s worth tasting.”

He really didn’t think he went out of his way with this dinner; it was a simple pasta with mushroom and tomato sauce. Still, Robin ate with eagerness that could make his own appetite look quite insignificant. The anxiety caused by the unlucky Wikipedia article seemed to go away, as did the awkwardness between them. As for its contents, they could discuss it in the morning.

Later, somewhere in between hungry kisses and discarding of clothes, Robin put her hand on his chest, as if to stop him.

“What is it?” he murmured, fearing that he was going too far or misreading her signals, even though she had just undone his belt quite unambiguously.

“I just want you to know,” Robin answered, “that I’m not doing this because I’m vulnerable, or anxious, or too afraid to stay alone.”

“No, of course not,” Strike leaned down to kiss her again, but she pressed her finger to his lips.

“I want this. I’ve wanted this for so long. I don’t want it to be a one-off shag.”

“How about a regular one, then?” Strike managed to peck her on the temple. “Maybe, on a daily basis?”

“That would do,” Robin whispered, and this was the last coherent phrase said between them that night.

*

On the next morning, they both arrived at the office even before Pat. Strike went straight to his flat to change, shave and brush his teeth, while Robin got their files ready for what they hoped to be their final meeting with The Slipper and SOM. On their way to the office, Strike called their client who, luckily, was already up at that hour. Strike announced that the investigation was over, and offer Tarnow to meet him and Robin at their office at half past nine. He insisted that Mark had to be present as well, and Tarnow, despite his obvious discontent about it, agreed.

Robin kept replaying the past night in her mind. The dinner, the kisses, the almost wordless agreement, the sex, and then, when they both lay spent, content and fairly exhausted, a whispered confession.

_“You’re the most important being in my life, Ellacott.”_

_“The feeling’s mutual. And you’re bloody good in bed, too.”_

_“Stop it. I’m serious.”_

_“Me too.”_

_“I think I love you, Robin.”_

As she recalled it, a lump reappeared in her throat. She knew how much it took him to say those words out loud. She knew that, before her, there was only one woman who had shared Strike’s bed and was honoured with the words that seemed now too precious to be wasted.

_“Cormoran, I – I know I love you.”_

Then she remembered the heated kiss they shared right at that moment, and what followed after that kiss. Such memories weren’t going to impact her work productivity in any positive way, so she was happy Pat chose that very moment to arrive at the office.

“Morning,” she called in her deep voice. “Blimey, you look wonderful, Robin. You seem to be shining from within.”

“Thanks,” Robin blushed. “Maybe it’s the solved case.”

It was twenty minutes past nine when Strike appeared, freshly shaven and unusually jubilant. Pat was so surprised at his almost sing-song “good morning, Pat, how are you today?” that it took her extra two seconds to respond. Finally, when she saw Strike giving Robin a full kiss on the lips, the penny must have dropped, because she chuckled, shook her head and started turning on her computer, muttering something along the lines of “at bloody last!”.

The Tarnows, father and son, arrived on time, and Strike himself met them at the door, gesturing to the inner office and asking them both for their drink preference. Robin had already waited for them inside; when Mark saw her, he stopped abruptly with his mouth open.

“Linda! What are you doing here?” he almost shouted.

“I’m afraid I’m not Linda,” Robin smiled softly, “but it’s nice of you to recognise someone you didn’t exchange two words with. I’m sorry for this, er, masquerade, but –”

“Wait, did you hire someone to spy on me?” Mark turned to his father. Tarnow-senior looked quite miserable; he averted his eyes.

“Why don’t we all sit down and talk like decent people?” Strike took his seat first and gestured to the two spare chairs. “Mr. Tarnow, the reason I asked Mark to come with you today is quite simple: Robin and I would like to hear his own story. Unfortunately, you didn’t tell us the whole truth, which is why our investigation has been fumbling in the dark up until now. Mark, we are sorry to put you through this, but sometimes talking things through – with the people you _trust_ – is the only way out of the shitty situation.”


	8. It Was Obvious, Right?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mark tells his side of the story, and so does his father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: referenced suicide, depression

“So what do you want me to tell?” Mark asked, frowning. “Turns out the whole internet knows more about my mum than I do.”

“The internet won’t help us find out how _you_ came to ballet.” Strike said calmly. “Just imagine no-one in this room knows the pre-history, but try to stick to the truth.”

“I grew up thinking Grace was my real mum. I still think she is. Dad –” He cast a sideways glance at his father, who still didn’t look at him. “never told me about what my real – biological – mother did. Until I found out myself.

“When I was thirteen, we had this project at school, “My famous namesake”. We had to find someone with the same name, or surname, and make a short report on them. So I started googling my surname first, and this Wikipedia page about my own dad pops up. Well, I _knew_ he was kinda famous and rich, but I didn’t care about it, I never thought there would be an article. And it says – you know what it says, right? So… this is how I found out.

“Well, I’ve always done what dad thought would suit me. All these real male sports. But then, on my birthday this year, something clicked in my head. I just started looking for my real mum. I watched her performances on YouTube, but there are just a few. So I signed up for some _forums_ for ballet lovers just to see more of her!”

“You did what we usually do when we look for clues.” Robin spoke for the first time since they all sat down. “You’ll make a great detective if you get tired of ballet.”

“I’ll never get tired of ballet!” Mark exclaimed heatedly. “You know what? It’s my tribute to her. I never asked _why_ she did this. It won’t get her back. But maybe if something she loved lives in me –” He broke off. His eyes met Strike’s, and the detective suddenly realised how alike they were, motherless sons of famous fathers, both knowing what they want and what they _don’t_ want to be in their lives. “I know I won’t become as great as she was. Maybe I’ll become a teacher of ballet, like Satoko? Open my own studio? Everyone says it’s in my genes. I’m having fun and I’m not bad at it. Why were you against it, dad?” Mark turned to his father, who, finally, looked back at him.

“I lost someone I loved – your mother – to ballet. I didn’t want to lose you, too.” Richard Tarnow suddenly seemed a decade older. “I know it’s silly. But when she – when it happened, I swore no one in my family would ever come close to ballet. But you just let me face it, and I couldn’t change anything.

“Christina had just turned 31,” Tarnow addressed Strike and Robin. “I can’t say it’s a retirement age for a ballet dancer, but she had some hard time returning to the theatre after giving birth to Mark. She gained some weight, too, and it looked like her career was over before she was ready for it. She clearly had depression, but before I could persuade her to go to a specialist, she –” He took a deep breath. “Took her life.”

Everybody was silent for a few moments.

“So this is what happened,” Tarnow said with sudden confidence. “When Mark announced he’s taking up ballet, I was shocked. I never noticed in him any interest in that sphere. I couldn’t believe it. Then a tiny thought occurred to me: what if he _isn’t_ really dancing? What if he tries to cover something I shouldn’t know about?”

“Like what?”

“Like, I don’t know, drugs? Using sex workers? I know it doesn’t look like my son, but still –”

“When you came here, Mr. Tarnow,” Robin interrupted him, “you behaved as if you were _afraid_ your son did something illegal or almost illegal instead of attending ballet classes. The truth is that you _hoped_ for it. You would accept it much easier than the fact that Mark is really dancing ballet and, may I say, is the real star of our studio.”

Strike felt a jolt of pride for Robin. He always treated her like his equal, and now she also behaved as such. She had the full right to draw the final line of their investigation, and, besides, she put it much better than he would.

“Well, I would look insane if I came to you and told you ‘please prove my son is taking drugs, I’m really worried that he isn’t’”, Tarnow chuckled.

“In fact, I’m not sure you needed our services,” Strike said. “All you had to do was just to talk to each other. This case is a perfect example of massive miscommunication and misunderstanding. I’m not a counsellor or something, but I’d suggest that you talk to each other more from now on. And trust each other. That will save both your peace of mind and your wallet.”

Tarnow simply nodded and, after a moment’s hesitation, hugged his son with one arm. Robin sniffed and looked away.

“Who did you choose in the end?” Strike asked Mark.

“What?”

“For the project. Your famous namesake.”

“Oh. Mark Zuckerberg. It was obvious, right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this is the plot! I hope (as always) the story isn't too forced and looks at least a little bit plausible. This is the end of the case part, but there'll be an epilogue, so stay tuned!


	9. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story makes a full circle.

_Three weeks later_

“It’s Thursday, isnae it?” Barclay sat down on the sofa, which loudly protested.

“Last time I checked, it was,” Pat answered, eyes still locked on the screen. “Why?”

“Robin’s gaun’ae be sore today. She always is. Ballet! Is there anythin’ this woman is incapable o’?” Seeing that Pat was ignoring him, Barclay resorted to a rhetorical question. However, there was no one to answer.

“Is Strike in?” Barclay tried.

“Last time I checked, he wasn’t.”

Muffled racket came from above: loud clattering, sound of moving furniture, anxious voices.

“Hey, is he awright?” Barclay jumped on his feet, ready for a rescue mission. “I haven’ heard anyone gang upstairs. There are at least two people!”

“For fuck’s sake, Nutter,” Pat snapped. “Calm down. They’ve just overslept.”

*

Robin could have sworn she had set the alarm the previous night before falling into Strike’s embrace and losing herself to the sensations than made her completely forget how her muscles ached after the class. However, there they were, running around Strike’s tiny flat, shoving sandwiches into their mouths, downing their coffees, trying to fit in Strike’s tiny bathroom to brush their teeth simultaneously – and failing. They eventually decided that one of them should take a shower while the other brushed their teeth. They were unforgivably late for the staff meeting, and, worst of all, they weren’t in the position to pretend they were on an early morning surveillance. By now, the whole office would have heard them.

Although the case was solved, bills paid and files archived, Robin decided to stay in the studio. This was the physical activity her body craved, and she had no intention of giving it up. She had to sign up again, though, this time under her real name, and now she was proudly paying for herself. She made good friends with Nina, who had to skip the classes due to her sprained ankle and wanted to know all the updates from the classes. Every week, she felt more confident and strong, and yesterday she almost managed her first split.

Partially, however, her new confidence was fueled by the limitless love and support she got now from her partner. When she was in doubt whether to continue with the ballet, Strike was the one to reassure her. Every week after classes, he picked her up, took her home, cooked her dinner and spent the rest of the night making love to her like it was their first and last time simultaneously. In the end, there was no surprise that they had missed the alarm. Last night, they fell asleep around 4 a.m.

*

“The Racoon’s a babysitter!” Barclay announced, when it was his turn to share the news. “Whan he goes oot at night, it isnae for cheatin’. He just looks after babies for thae who work night shifts. Doctors, firefighters, policemen ’n’ women, an’ so on.”

“There’s a nice bloke, for a change!” said Andy. “You don’t meet them a lot in our job.”

“It’s so sweet,” Michelle sighed. “I hope his wife will accept it. It’s such an important profession.”

“His missus would rather he looked after his own offsprin’.” Barclay chuckled. “But it pays the bills, and he likes it.”

“Great job, Sam,” Robin clapped her hands, and the rest of the team followed. “So you’re free for more cases, then!”

“Aye, as long as it doesnae involve dancin’!” Barclay raised a warning finger. “If it does, leave it tae Strike.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, for sticking with me, for leaving the sweetest comments and for taking interest in this plot! It started as just "Robin goes to ballet and suffers", but then a whole story was born - all thanks to your enthusiasm and support! Thank you!!!

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by my most wonderful ballet studio and my amazing teacher. Robin's experience is roughly based on my own, though I'm sure she's much more athletic in canon.


End file.
